“I know that, nurse. The Lord might take him to Heaven, to save him from the evil in this world; but he would be safe there, for the Lord would take care of him for me, and give him back to me when I myself should reach the Blessed Land,” she answered, reverently. And mammy had nothing more to say. How closely the young mother watched the tiny growth of her child, and the faint development of his intelligence. She could see progress where no one else could perceive the slightest sign of it. She discovered that “he” “took notice,” long before any one could be brought to acknowledge that such a prodigy was possible. Her delight when her boy first smiled in his sleep, or when she fancied he did, was something almost ludicrous. She was kneeling by his cradle, watching his slumbers as usual, when she suddenly cried out, though in a hushed voice: “Oh, Anna! Cousin Anna! look! look! he is laughing, he is indeed! _See_ how he is laughing!” Miss Lyon came and bent over the cradle. So did mammy, who drew back again, saying: “Lor! why that ain’t no laugh, ma’am; that’s wind—leastways, it is a grimace caused by wind on the stomach, and I must give him some catnip when he wakes.” Now, if Drusilla’s sweet face had been capable of expressing withering contempt mammy would have been shrivelled up to a mummy: but as it was she could only appeal from the nurse to Miss Lyon. “Anna, look at him—he _is_ laughing, or, at the very least, smiling—is he not?” “Yes, my darling, he is certainly smiling; and you know the old folks say when an infant smiles in its sleep it dreams of Heaven and sees angels.” “And I do believe that is true—it must be true! And my little cherub sees his guardian angels!” exclaimed Drusilla, delightedly. “I tell you, ma’am,” began mammy, “it is nothing but jest win—Owtch!” she exclaimed, suddenly breaking off as Anna trod heavily upon her corns. And presently mammy limped off to make the threatened catnip tea, leaving the two young women to the enjoyment of their faith in the sleeping baby’s Heavenly visions. For the first weeks infants’ eyes are of no particular form, color or expression, but merely little liquid orbs folded up in fat. But very soon Drusilla made very great discoveries in her infant’s eyes. Sitting alone one morning, and gazing down upon the babe that lay smiling on her lap, she murmured: “Oh, Alick, Alick, dear, you have torn yourself away from me, and have gone. But you could not deprive me of your _eyes_, my Alick! They look up at me from my baby’s face, and while they do so I can never cease to love you and pray for you, Alick, my Alick!” Since his desertion this was the only occasion upon which she had ever breathed his name, and even now it was only in half audible murmurs as she talked to herself, or to her babe.